Sunrise From Indigo
Surreal: Joey
By skeabs

I'm awake and I don't know why. It's still dark out, the intensely deep, quiet darkness of early morning. A noise perhaps?

And I hear it again. And it's not a house settling noise or a tree branch hitting a window but a noise. An invasive noise that doesn't belong. I curse as I remember that I didn't turn on the alarm tonight.

I sit up in bed and you stir next to me at the movement. I whisper, "shh, stay here," and get up from the bed. I don't have the clichéd baseball bat behind the door, but I'm mad enough to face whoever, whatever it is empty handed.

I creep down the back stairs that lead down to the kitchen. I barely breathe on the way down. As I get closer to the bottom of the stairs, I can hear him moving around. This person that doesn't belong, that's invading our home, our space, our lives.

I enter the kitchen, and move through quietly, stopping in the doorway to our living room. He's in the dining room, and I can hear the clink of silver as he pulls it out of our cabinet. Your mother's silver.

And then I hear an entirely separate noise, and my heart clenches. Your footsteps. I don't know how he can't have heard them. They're so loud. Each one echoes in my head. You're coming down the front stairs. The ones that will put you in the front hallway, right at the door to the dining room. Right where he is. I can't… You would… fuck. I can't let that happen.

I have two seconds to make this decision, and I can only hope that you'll forgive me afterwards.

I stand up straight from my crouched position in the doorway, and walk with stomping footsteps toward the dining room. As I reach the doorway I say "hey" in a loud voice. The sharp report of gunfire doesn't surprise me. Nor does the sharp burning pain in my chest. What surprises me is that he doesn't take the case of silver utensils when he dives out the open window behind him.

I fall to the floor as the weight of the bullet in my chest bears me downward. I can hear you clearly now. You're calling my name as you sprint down the last couple of stairs, falling to a skidding stop on your knees next to me. You reach out a tentative hand, not knowing where to touch, or what to do. You rip off the t-shirt you've been sleeping in and press it over the wound. You lean heavily on top, hoping that your solid weight will stop my blood's inexorable outward progress.

I need an ambulance. Call an ambulance. I open my mouth and you move in closer, tears coursing down your cheeks and dripping onto my chest as you lean over it, hovering. "911," I breathe into your ear.

You nod, gulping sobs. There's a phone on the table behind you, and you reach behind you blindly, dialing the number. You breathe deeply, trying to control your sobs as you answer the woman's questions. When you finally hang up, you lean down closer to me, and use the hand previously holding the phone to grab the hand closest to you.

"Why?" you choke out.

I'm having trouble breathing, forcing air in and out of my lungs, but I have to tell you this. "I love you."

"Oh God." Your voice breaks again, and you seem to crumble next to me, still clutching my hand and pressing down. I cough a bit; air is forced from my lungs. I can feel blood dripping out past my lips. I can see gray forming on the outer edges of my field of vision, and I know I'm moments away from unconsciousness.

I tug on your hand, pulling you in closer. You lean towards me, and I begin to whisper again. "I love you." I'd just told you, I know. But if it's the last time I ever get to talk to you, I want you to know. Always.

You press harder on my chest, still trying to stay the course of fate. I try to keep my eyes open for as long as possible. I don't want to miss one second. I can see your lips moving, but I can no longer hear what you are saying. The chords in your throat are working, and I suppose you are screaming. I don't know. I love you. I'm just going to close my eyes for a bit now.

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